


i like shiny things but i'd marry you with paper rings

by aloeverava



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Iwaizumi Hajime in a Suit, M/M, Married Life, Post-Wedding, Slow Dancing In Their Bedroom Because They Can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloeverava/pseuds/aloeverava
Summary: The smell of each other: Hajime’s shampoo, the 2-in-1 shit that Tooru usually despises but, begrudgingly, has grown to love. Oikawa’s skin, which is a mix of sweat and traces of cologne from the day’s wear. If you were to ask Hajime, he would describe his husband as “gross,” even if his mind says otherwise.The light breeze of the ceiling fan, turned onto high because the A/C went out and it’s the asscrack of summer. The feeling of Hajime’s suit jacket sleeves against Oikawa’s bare sides, smooth and much too expensive, since Tooru hadinsistedon Italian silk.The waltz drifts from the record player, a steady and slow beat that they don’t care to sync with. The couple moves about the room much slower, though they both appreciate the music, taken back to the night of their wedding.The pieces finally clicking in his memory, Hajime’s breath hitches; Tooru smiles knowingly.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50





	i like shiny things but i'd marry you with paper rings

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Bahasa Indonesia available: [aku suka hal-hal yang berkilau, tetapi aku akan menikahimu dengan cincin kertas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109981) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> thankkkkk u stella (@thelittlebirdthattoldyou) and keith (@NikAdair) for beta-reading dis !! <3

“This is my favorite song, you know.”

The words are murmured underneath the soft piano melody crackling from the vinyl record, caressed from Tooru’s tongue to Hajime’s ears with a feather-light touch; they’re almost swept away by the scoff Hajime lets out.

“You don’t listen to classical music,” is a statement, not a question, because Hajime knows his husband like that.

“That doesn’t mean this can’t be my favorite song.” Tooru frowns as he closes the gap between their already close bodies, pressing one chest to another as his chin settles on top of Hajime’s head. The taller man has to crane his neck upwards slightly to feel the tickle of Hajime’s hair against the underside of his chin, but it’s worth it for the annoyed huff that escapes Hajime, a warm puff of air ghosting over his bare chest.

There are no more retorts from either one of them for the rest of the song, only the soft shuffling of feet on carpet as they move in slow circles about the room. Tooru has his hands around Hajime’s neck, despite being the taller one, and Hajime’s fingers are intertwined against the small of Tooru’s back. Both of their eyes have closed, their other four senses enhanced as a result.

The smell of each other: Hajime’s shampoo, the 2-in-1 shit that Tooru usually despises but, begrudgingly, has grown to love. Oikawa’s skin, which is a mix of sweat and traces of cologne from the day’s wear. If you were to ask Hajime, he would describe his husband as “gross,” even if his mind says otherwise.

The light breeze of the ceiling fan, turned onto high because the A/C went out and it’s the asscrack of summer. The feeling of Hajime’s suit jacket sleeves against Oikawa’s bare sides, smooth and much too expensive, since Tooru had _insisted_ on Italian silk.

The waltz drifts from the record player, a steady and slow beat that they don’t care to sync with. The couple moves about the room much slower, though they both appreciate the music, taken back to the night of their wedding.

The pieces finally clicking in his memory, Hajime’s breath hitches; Tooru smiles knowingly.

“See why this is my favorite song?” Tooru asks, nuzzling his nose into the side of Hajime’s head so that his words come slightly muffled.

Hajime pulls his head back just to glare at Tooru. “Sap,” he grunts before resting his head into Tooru’s shoulder.

They both laugh, a sweet timbre that echoes throughout both of their chests and makes Tooru’s heart do that stupid thing where it skips a beat.

When it first happened—that little irregularity in the pumping rhythm of his heart—he had hated it. It made him mess up his serves when Hajime was on the other side of the net during practice. It made him say (extra) stupid things that made Hajime blush—well, okay, he didn’t mind _that_ part as much. But over the years, he had figured out how to cure it. And once he learned how to make it stop, he fell in love with that little skip.

Unclasping his hands so he can use one to cup Hajime’s chin, tilting it back so their faces are held just a hair’s breadth away, Tooru’s stomach starts to mimic his heart, doing little somersaults and jumps that Hajime would call anatomically impossible, or whatever.

The sensation isn’t nearly as unpleasant as it was all those years ago—no, now it is something to look forward to. Something to look forward to because it means this:

The taste of Hajime’s lips on his, indescribable in all the languages in the world. The taste of a mouth that has formed “Shittykawa” and “I love you” and “I do,” the taste of lips that have caressed his bruises and left their own. The taste of love, no matter how much Hajime calls him a “corny piece of shit.”

When their lips part and their eyes open, Hajime’s hands have rehomed themselves in the slight dip of Tooru’s hips, fitting there like puzzle pieces. His thumbs stroke back and forth over the hem of Tooru’s sweatpants, the color so familiar to Hajime that it is practically visible even as he gazes into Tooru’s eyes—Tooru’s eyes, which are shining with tears.

Hajime doesn’t need to say “you weepy little bitch” out loud; Tooru can feel the words in the way Hajime smirks slightly into their next kiss, the way he is smiling full-on, all teeth and gums when he pulls away.

Tooru’s toes curl into the carpet as his mouth curves into a smile just as bright, just as sickeningly in love.

“Open your eyes,” Hajime laughs, though for some reason the sound is distant. Had Tooru not been so wrapped up in the way the insides of his chest were doing that _thing_ again, maybe he would have noticed the melancholic undertone of Hajime’s voice and the way the record player scratches slightly.

Maybe if Tooru had never closed his eyes to begin with, he would have seen what wasn’t there.

“What do you mean?”

Hajime reaches up to press a kiss to the tip of Tooru’s nose, but something doesn’t feel right. His lips are no longer shaped into that curve he calls home, and they are cold, like an ice cube amongst the sweltering heat of their bedroom.

The kiss whispers “sorry” instead of “I love you,” “goodbye” instead of “hello (again).”

Tooru only realizes that Hajime’s hands have left his hips because they are suddenly warm once more—since when was Hajime’s skin as cool as the band of metal wrapped around his finger?

“Open your eyes.”

“Iwa-chan, what do you mean?” he laughs, but it catches with a nervous lilt. “They are open.”

But as soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels a blanket of lead envelop him, Hajime’s body gone from his for good as the dread begins to wrap itself around his heart.

Now the organ pumps in hopes of freeing itself, not at the sight of Hajime’s smile or Hajime’s eyes or Hajime’s—

“Open your eyes,” Hajime whispers—no, _pleads—_ once more, and then the music comes to a dissonant stop.

Hugging the fabric of the suit to his bare chest, Tooru lets himself weep as he crashes to the ground.

The suit still smells like Hajime, though it’s begun to take on Tooru’s musk from all the time he’s spent with it recently. The fabric is still soft beneath the calloused pads of his fingers, though there are spots where his tears have ruined it for good.

Tooru opens his eyes to see the shards of a vinyl disc shoved beneath the record player’s table, barely visible in the dim lighting but staring him straight in the eye from his position on the floor. He had thrown it across the room in one of his fits of grief, leaving the suit as one of the only pieces of memorabilia from that night.

That night, of which a distant waltz still echoes in his head when he thinks of his Hajime. When he declared himself the happiest man on earth, sealing it with twin bands of fine silver. (One of which is now six feet under, sent into the depths of the ground with his lover’s body.) From which he cherishes the taste of wedding cake (red velvet because Hajime was surprisingly insistent on the matter), only now he cannot remember it, can only taste acid in his mouth at the thought of it.

Still clutching the suit in his arms, Tooru smiles bitterly as a tear makes its way into his mouth.

It’s salty and not very pleasant _—_ rather disgusting, really.

But it tastes better than the memories.

**Author's Note:**

> oops! my fingers slipped :/
> 
> ((ty stella for the perfectly misleading title))
> 
> tumblr: hairbleachwhore  
> twt: glutenfreeroach  
> ko-fi: aloeverava


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